


Messy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Facials, Hand Jobs, Licking, Locker Room, M/M, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Murasakibara is always the last to change." Murasakibara lingers in the locker room, and Himuro ends up messier than when they started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Murasakibara is always the last to change.

Himuro can count on it, now. Regardless of how long practice goes or how tired they are, they will always be the last ones to leave, caught a step behind everyone else while Murasakibara finishes his snack, while Murasakibara lingers in the shower, while Murasakibara towels his hair dry. Today he’s not even trying to keep up with everyone else’s pace. The rest of the team has said goodbye and left, taking their conversations and casual friendliness with them, and Murasakibara remains where he dropped at the end of practice, shoulders resting against the corner of the lockers and eyes idly drifting against Himuro’s features while the other collects his things with more habit than urgency. He’s just contemplated changing himself, taking a shower to rinse the sticky catch of sweat off his skin, when the other speaks without moving.

“Muro-chin.”

There’s no emotion to the sound, just the flat weight of boredom that is a constant presence in Murasakibara’s voice. Himuro is expecting to look up to a demand for another drink, a request that he go buy another bag of chips or a box of candy. He’s not prepared for the hand that lands on his shoulder, Murasakibara’s fingers closing against him and pulling him forward off the bench.

“Knees,” Murasakibara says without any preamble at all. His hand is still at Himuro’s shoulder, pushing down harder, now, as he uses it as a prop as he pushes to his feet. He’s impossibly tall when Himuro is kneeling, his usual overwhelming size actively surprising with the difference in their positions, but Himuro doesn’t try to get to his feet. This isn’t a particularly common event, in the list of things Murasakibara is likely to want, but Himuro knows to take his opportunities when they arise, is happy to submit to Murasakibara’s whims anytime it gives him an opportunity like this. He looks up through his hair, an attempt to read the other’s expression that proves mostly futile for the perpetual half-sleepy boredom that dominates the other’s gaze. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Himuro could have his eyes shut completely and he would still be able to feel the heat radiating off Murasakibara’s body, the thin fabric of his shorts doing nothing to block the warmth.

Murasakibara gets his balance over his own feet, the weight pressing down at Himuro’s shoulder lifts, and Himuro is responding immediately, rocking up over his knees as the hand at his shoulder loosens. The shift digs his knees in against the floor, burns the ache of almost-torn skin out over them, but he doesn’t move away, leans in closer to press his forehead to Murasakibara’s stomach, to reach for the waistband of the other’s shorts to tug them down off his hips.

Usually Himuro is the one who has to persuade Murasakibara into interest, either through slow seduction or teasing him into one of the uncannily quick responses the other sometimes shows when pressed. But this time the other boy is more than half-hard before Himuro has his shorts off, flushing harder under the warmth of the other’s breathing until there’s almost nothing left for Himuro to do at all. All he has to do is duck in, open his mouth and fit Murasakibara’s cock past his lips, and Murasakibara rocks forward immediately, pressing himself far back over Himuro’s mouth until the other thinks he might be able to just hold still and let Murasakibara thrust in against his lips.

Not that he intends to. It’s far more satisfying to reach out to brace himself at the other’s hips, to fit his thumbs into the dip of the other’s waist like he’s pretending he has some control over the other boy’s movements. When Murasakibara rocks forward Himuro ducks in to meet him, opening his mouth wider and shutting his eyes so he can focus on the hot slide of the other’s cock over his tongue. Murasakibara tastes hot, like strength and sweat and all the things Murasakibara pretends not be but is, under the boredom and the laziness. The thought makes Himuro whimper in the back of his throat, accidental vibration sliding across his tongue, and Murasakibara groans low and hot and grabs at his hair, his fingers tightening against the back of Himuro’s head to pull him in forcibly. The motion brings Himuro in past the point of comfort, slides Murasakibara’s cock in against the back of his throat and down until he can’t breathe, but he doesn’t push at the other’s hips to urge him away. He can feel his throat working reflexively, attempts to breathe that turn into awkward choking noises on his tongue, but Murasakibara is breathing harder, leaning forward so he can press his free hand flat against the locker and brace himself to move into a deliberate rhythm.

Himuro keeps his eyes shut, keeps his hold at Murasakibara’s hips to hold himself in place, to keep his sense of his surroundings fixed against the motion over his lips and against his aching throat. He wants to lean in closer, wants to swallow Murasakibara back until he’s rewarded with the sticky heat of the other’s come spilling over his tongue, but he can’t move free from the fist tangled into his hair. All that’s left is to hold onto his awareness in the moment, open his mouth wider and lick harder at the other’s length and let Murasakibara fuck into his mouth at whatever pace the other wants to set.

Himuro is expecting Murasakibara to finish in his mouth. That’s the way this has always gone in the past, after all, and the other usually likes the minimal clean-up required by blowjobs. But the heat of Murasakibara’s cock is just starting to flush hotter, the twitch of extra resistance speaking to how close he is, when he draws back, leaves Himuro gasping for air and without any pressure at his lips at all. The unexpected movement persuades Himuro to open his eyes, to look up in pursuit of some kind of explanation, and as he moves Murasakibara lets his hair go, reaches down to replace Himuro’s mouth with the grip of his own fingers. He moves fast, falling into a far faster pace than his hips set before, and Himuro can see the faint crease of attention forming across Murasakibara’s face, the shadow of intensity in the stare fixed on him.

“Atsushi--” he starts, and Murasakibara grates “Open your mouth” like every word is costing him. Himuro’s words die in his throat, his lips part in instant obedience, and he’s just looking back at Murasakibara’s taut stomach when the other groans, the movement of his hand going jerky and arrythmic. Himuro’s mouth goes wider, he tips his head back in a motion as much for aesthetics as it is sincere, and Murasakibara comes, hot come splashing across Himuro’s tongue and lips and up against his cheek, too, catching sticky in his hair before he has a chance to pull back. He chokes at the surprise of the impact, starts to flinch away, but Murasakibara doesn’t stop the motion of his hand, keeps stroking the last few spills of heat out against Himuro’s lips. Himuro catches his motion after a breath, goes still in time to catch the last of Murasakibara’s come against his tongue, and then the other is pulling away, pulling his shorts up over himself in one quick motion while Himuro swallows, licks his lips, swallows again. That gets his mouth clean but does nothing at all for the mess across the rest of his face, the liquid so thick Himuro hesitates to wipe at it with his hand and just make the mess worse.

A hand comes down against his jaw, tilts his chin up to the light. “You’re sticky, Muro-chin,” Murasakibara observes, the words so flat they lack the suggestion of criticism they might otherwise have. Himuro looks up, meets the other’s eyes, and there’s something there he hasn’t seen before, something that’s a little bit like curiosity and far closer to appreciation.

The fingers drag sideways, up Himuro’s jawline to dig into his hair. The motion catches at the sticky strands, drags them to the forefront of Himuro’s attention, and he’s just taking a breath of hissing reaction when Murasakibara says, “Even your  _hair_ ” in what is unmistakably a purr of pleasure. Himuro shudders at that sound, his body flushing hot with desire, and his self-consciousness under Murasakibara’s stare is going shameless and wanton, pulling his head to the side so he can shut his eyes and suck the other’s fingers into his mouth. Murasakibara’s skin tastes salty, lingering hints of whatever he was eating most recently clinging to his fingertips, and Himuro savours the texture on his tongue, licks slow and thorough between each knuckle while Murasakibara drops to a knee, reaches out to pull roughly against Himuro’s shorts.

Himuro is past the point of embarrassment when Murasakibara gets his fingers against bare skin, the give of his shorts revealing his flushed cock and its slick-smeared head. He just whines encouragement as Murasakibara pulls his hand free to push at his hair again, lets his head fall back on a moan of appreciation as Murasakibara’s thumb presses hard against him, and when the other starts to jerk up over him his pace is rough and rushed and perfect. The raw hurt at Himuro’s knees is forgotten, his attention abandoned to center in on Murasakibara’s hand, skin, movement, his hips tilting up to arch in for more without thinking. He’s clinging to the other’s shirt, dragging the fabric out-of-shape with the force of his pull, and Murasakibara lets him, pushing his hand harder against the sticky in Himuro’s hair. He’s smearing it, grinding it in farther into the strands, and Himuro doesn’t care, he’s turning his head in like he’s going to kiss Murasakibara’s palm, like he’s trying to spread the viscous spill at his cheek over the other’s palm.

Murasakibara’s fingers tense, stalling Himuro’s motion before it has begun, and for a moment Himuro thinks he’s gone too far, that the contact at his jaw and in his hair is about to pull back. But Murasakibara is leaning in, not away, and when the motion sidesteps the angle for a kiss Himuro has a brief, breathless moment of understanding.

“Atsushi,” he gasps, and that’s all he has time for before Murasakibara’s mouth is against his cheek, the other’s tongue trailing hot against the sticky smear on Himuro’s skin. The heat is almost enough, the wet warm of the friction against him, but Himuro has a clear image of what they look like, him with his shorts tangled around his knees and thrusting desperately into Murasakibara’s grip while the other licks his own come off Himuro’s face, and Himuro doesn’t know if it’s his eyes shutting or just his vision fading into white that takes his sight for a moment. All he knows, all that  _matters_ , is that he’s coming all at once, sharp frantic motions of his hips pushing him up against Murasakibara’s palm while the heat in him spills out thick and hot across the other’s fingers.

Murasakibara’s pulling away almost as soon as Himuro can see straight again, his lips and his hold and his touch all drawing away so he can lean back on his heels. Himuro doesn’t move, stays still while his breathing rights itself. Murasakibara isn’t looking at him; he’s considering his fingers, the pearly liquid spread out over them, and it’s a sign of Himuro’s overheated distraction that he doesn’t -- quite -- whimper as Murasakibara lifts his hand to his mouth to lick his fingers clean.

He still stares, though, his focus utterly derailed by heat and shock and lingering arousal, until it’s Murasakibara who says “You’re still sticky. Don’t you need to take a shower?” while Himuro’s still kneeling against the floor.

“Oh,” Himuro says, looking down, and “Yeah,” stumbling to his feet and pulling his clothes more or less back into place. “I’ll be right back.”

Murasakibara is still there when Himuro comes out with his hair twice-washed clean and damp and his skin clean of any evidence of exertion. He doesn’t say anything while Himuro puts his clothes back on, doesn’t move at all until Himuro is all but ready to go. Then he gets up, pushes to his feet with a sigh that says standing is an unpleasant but necessary chore, and when they leave he’s right at Himuro’s side like he always is.

No matter when they finish changing, they always leave together.


End file.
